


Pale Blue Eyes

by ValeCimmerian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 15:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValeCimmerian/pseuds/ValeCimmerian
Summary: Based on the Velvet Underground song that Neil Gaiman mentioned on tumblr Crowley listens to. Crowley comes home one day and has a realisation.





	Pale Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Best read to the sounds of the Velvet Underground's Pale Blue Eyes.

The door clicked shut. Crowley remained there for a moment, leaning with arms folded atop the cool metal of the door of his Bentley. He watched the shape of his angel disappear into the warmly lit backroom through the window of the door, allowing the warm smile that had been brewing to spread across his face as he got back in the car and drove away, the picture of Aziraphale's curls bent over the dark wood of a bookshelf held in his mind. As he drove away Crowley breathed in a little and flexed his fingers on the wheel. The empty space where Aziraphale had been felt oppressive now, an ache, though the demon reasoned he had lasted far longer without his angel beside him. It was somehow worse, he found, now their meetings were weekly, almost daily. In every moment the space that lay between them was thick and palpable. Each millimetre, each atom, turned to the gulf of thousands of years of all that was unspoken. Crowley licked his lips and swallowed a little, pressing his foot down on the accelerator and feeling the car rev beneath him, he heard the sweet, incessant voice of his angel telling him to keep his eyes on the road from somewhere in the back of his mind.

An ache pulled at his heart. A heart he long believed could not exist, but the pangs of which could no longer be ignored, bringing waves of an incomparable warmth (had Crowley been able to remember Heaven, he would have had a simple comparison). The ache began miles away at the angel he had just left behind, and ended just where the two should meet. An errant thought of sleep-tousled curls resting just above where that traitorously soft organ was beating and aching slipped into Crowley's mind, and he let an uncharacteristically soft smile drift once more across the features of his face. Crowley took a small, shuddering breath wishing that his fingers were curled around soft palms not a steering wheel. The Bentley pulled up outside the nondescript apartment. For a moment, once the engine stopped, Crowley sat in the quiet contemplation of another evening in another place, of what could be. Of soft skin slipping over soft skin, breathless whispers, the gentle press of lips, of hands that crept beneath the edge of shirts and backs pressed against a cool brick wall. 

The moment passed and Crowley got out of his car. His steps felt heavier with each inch further from where he should be. Heels clicked cleanly against concrete flooring on the way up to what had almost become home, and his head pounded with images of Aziraphale like an itch he could not scratch, pressed with the weight of their distance, images of earlier in the park, fingertips almost brushing the shoulder of his angel, watching the calm and oblivious face that lit up his world. The opening of the door, the stepping through and walking through the empty hallways were numb and far away with the delightful distractions playing across his mind and overwhelming his senses. 

Some time later, the how's and whys lost in a haze of thoughts of Aziraphale, Crowley found himself slumped against the cold unforgiving wood of his chair, half-empty glass of scotch in his hand and a buzz somewhere in the back of his mind. The silence of his apartment (which should be filled, he thought, with the sweet sound of his angel's voice and laughter) was heavy and oppressive now. It was a void, an abyss into which he was sucked and drowned in thoughts of a ring on elegant hands, of bowtie around a soft neck begging to be undone, of a smile. A soft smile, sweet and unhidden, for him. For him. They were only thoughts and words, but it pressed against the cavity of his chest in an unbearably pleasant pressure. With a small groan he shifted and clicked his fingers. The silence was too much. A familiar gentle tambourine and soft guitar being picked at began, and he put his head in his hands. Apparently, his beloved record player was conspiring against him. His head tiled back. He didn't change the track though, choosing instead to sink deeper into the soft tones of The Velvet Underground.

Oh lord, his angel. 

If he could, he would be absolutely fuming at him. Those eyes, those pale blue eyes that gazed at him so softly, with such adoration- or was it just wishful thinking? Perhaps it was more akin to pity. After all, Aziraphale was a being of love. He must be able to sense Crowley's incessant pining, and feel sorry that Crowley could ever even hope to dream of an angel loving a demon.   
After all their agreement was one of convenience more than genuine feeling, and Aziraphale had never been anything more than civil, never anything more or less than an angel should be. Aziraphale was a good angel at that, and an angel could never be anything more than repulsed by a demon. Repulsed by him. By everything he stood for, everything he was, every inch of his wretched self. And somehow, he still longed for Aziraphale's touch; the touch of his angel, whom he had seen and grown to care for more deeply than he should be able to, the touch of a being so bright and pure he could hardly even look at his wondrous eyes.

In that moment, alone in the cold of his apartment, something inside Crowley shattered. That pleasant yearning pressure had broken into shards that cut his heart open and bled with the impossible possibilities of soft hands in his own and lips that crashed against his. A strangled sound accompanied the pushing of these shards harder into his still beating heart. Crowley's face crumpled. He harshly shoved at the tears threatening spill from his eyes, trying and failing to will them back into his tear ducts, shaking gently. He knew now, without doubt, that his angel would remain barely a brush of fingertips away for the rest of eternity.


End file.
